


one foot in front of the other

by Shoulder_Devil



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Canon-typical Oscar Wilde is bad at self-care, Extra Treat, Fever, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, post Paris pre Prague
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:21:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27203084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shoulder_Devil/pseuds/Shoulder_Devil
Summary: The headaches get steadily worse, sudden movements throw his fragile equilibrium into chaos. When the chills set in Oscar finally has to admit to himself that he might be ill. Not that he can do much about it until he reaches the city. He has places to be and work to do. If his dreams are troubled it is easy enough to blame it on the fever.
Relationships: Zolf Smith & Oscar Wilde
Comments: 8
Kudos: 36
Collections: Trick or Treat Exchange 2020





	one foot in front of the other

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nemainofthewater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nemainofthewater/gifts).



A fog surrounds Oscar Wilde. No matter how hard he tries he can’t tell if the fog is real or simply in his mind. (As if anything is _simple_ ) He shakes his head to clear it only to be rewarded by the world taking a hard lurch to the left. He crashes to a knee but the pain of the impact manages to clear his head somewhat. _Small favors._

The fog is real. It hangs damp and thick in the air, likely one of the side effects of the strange weather ravaging Europe of late. Unfortunately the fog is in his mind too. He tells himself it's a lingering side effect of the poisoning he’d suffered back in Paris. It will go away on its own eventually, all he needs is a good rest and he'll be fine. He's been telling himself that for days now, each repetition harder to believe than the last. 

Maybe when he gets to Prague he can rest. Who is he kidding? Things aren’t going to slow down, in fact they’re liable to get worse. A break isn’t in his future any time soon. Even entertaining the thought of rest is a waste of time.

“One foot in front of the other, Oscar,” he tells himself. It’s more of a mumble really, too weak to manage much more.

He can’t risk using his magic, even for a pick-me-up. It’s funny really, someone who thrives on attention trying so hard not to draw any. The closer he gets to Prague the more likely he could encounter separatists or their agents (or worse). Best to keep a low profile (and save his magic for when he _needs_ it, not some silly frivolity)

Early in his journey he traveled with a knot of refugees from Paris. There wasn’t much he could do to help them, not without giving himself away. (Even then, most of what he could do depended on access to Meritocratic resources which, well…) The group didn’t a healer to speak of among them but a cobbler with some experience with foot injuries was able to splint his ankle. 

_When the cobbler saw the man’s limp he assumed he’d twisted it on a cobblestone or curb in his rush to flee Paris. "Clearly he left in a hurry,” he whispered to his wife before offering aid. “Only got the clothes on his back, didn’t even stop to get a decent pair of shoes.”_

_As he pulled down the muddy stocking to reveal swollen and purpled flesh, he knew that there was more to the story. The man (who didn’t offer his name and the cobbler didn’t ask) made a flirtatious comment to break the tension, something about his brazen display of ankle to a stranger._

_“I took a tumble down some stairs.” He offered glibly to the cobbler’s unasked question, it seemed true enough after a fashion. Must have been quite a few stairs though. “The wound to my pride was the more severe injury- at least until travel upon it became a necessity.” The smile he flashed didn’t erase the pained tension from his eyes._

_“Probably not broken but one hell of a nasty sprain. I’d tell you to keep off it but…”_ _  
__  
__The man nodded and thanked him for wrapping it, pressing a few coins into his hand. The cobbler initially refused saying he was no doctor but the man insisted, clearly an expert at this particular dance._

_(“Oh no, I couldn’t possibly! I'm simply helping a fellow traveler.”_

_“Oh, but you simply must, I insist. Your application of skill has been most invaluable.”)_

Not long after, Oscar leaves the group to head out on his own. There is safety in numbers, yes, but also the increased threat of discovery. Not to mention the very real risk to the straggly group of refugees. Gods forbid he’d been tracked out of the city and the group was targeted for revenge by le Gourmand. The refugees don’t have the skills of Sasha and the others. After his failures in Paris he _knows_ he wouldn't be able to protect all these people. Even at the top of his game (which he is _not)_ there are too many for him to keep safe. 

In any case, they aren’t headed to where he needs to go.

So now he’s on his own, in a fog both literal and metaphorical, with a throbbing ankle and a pounding headache. He hopes he doesn’t have to walk the whole way to Prague.

* * *

He remembers little of the remainder of his journey. Flashes of an ox cart and gentle swaying, falling asleep surrounded by the scent of straw. It’s a minor miracle he wasn’t robbed. (Maybe he was, but only if you count some _incredibly_ poor bartering on his part) 

The headaches get steadily worse, sudden movements throw his fragile equilibrium into chaos. When the chills set in Oscar finally has to admit to himself that he might actually be ill. Not that he can do much about it until he reaches the city. He has places to be and work to do. If his dreams are troubled it is easy enough to blame it on the fever. 

_The farmer doesn’t wake him when they reach his home, the traveler he picked up looks like he needs the sleep. Unloading the wagon can wait and he certainly had been paid well enough to warrant the delay._

_There isn’t cause to rouse his passenger until well past nightfall when the sound of screaming pulls him from his bed. He runs to the barn, barely stopping to pull on his boots and grab a makeshift weapon. If the rumors out of Paris are true there is no telling what he might encounter._

_Another scream pierces the night air as he throws open the door. The farmer doesn’t see any immediate danger (the horses are awake and uneasy but aren’t panicking so far, there's no fire, no wolves) Straw litters the floor where it’s been thrown by the man thrashing about inside of the wagon._

_He hurries over and shakes Will by the shoulder. “Will. Will, wake up. You’re having a nightmare.” Will’s arms flail at him but he does not wake. “Gods dammit, you’ll spook the horses with this racket!"_

_A confused cry and Will finally jolts violently awake._

_“You alright?” he asks carefully, like he’s one of the horses, liable to spook and hurt himself._

_Will blinks a few times and begins to collect himself, muttering some kind of singsong nonsense. He raises his fingers, about to click them but stops with a frown. Whatever idea he had he must have lost it as he brushes his sweaty hair back from his face._

_"I... I apologize for taking advantage of your hospitality. It's far past time that I took my leave."_

_The farmer protests but not so hard that Will doesn't gather his things and set out for the road. He tells himself that dawn is only a few hours away and in this weather it hardly matters. Whatever Will is mixed up in is none of his business, safer for everyone if he stays out of it._

Oscar is aware enough to know he’s leaving a trail. To his recollection he hasn’t used his real name (Gods, did he actually give his _father’s_ name as cover, he really must be slipping) but people _will_ remember him if questioned. He’s somehow able to slip into Prague without issue (he hopes) but it’s too late for him to get to the Meritocratic offices before they close for the night. Besides, he has to lay low until he can determine if he picked up a tail.

* * *

Banging on the door rouses him from an uneasy sleep. Was he screaming again? He doesn’t remember dreaming this time. 

The knocking comes again. “Oi! It’s past midday, either pay up or clear the room!” 

_What?_ Wilde sits up with a groan, wincing at the pounding in his head. “I’ve already paid through until tomorrow.” Oscar’s voice is barely a croak. (A spike of fear shoots up his spine. There is a difference in choosing not to use magic and not being _able_ to use magic. If his condition has gotten worse he may not be able to cast)

“Yeah, well it’s tomorrow already and if you ain’t payin’ you ain’t stayin’.” 

_How?_ He vaguely remembers waking in the night in need of water but collapsing soon after. Had he slept through the day? He rubs his face but the stubble he encounters isn’t a surprise, he hasn’t shaved since Paris. It's not really possible to tell the difference between five days of growth and six (or was it seven? Ten? Just how long _has_ he been traveling) 

“If I have to get the barman up here to toss you out I will.” 

“That wo-” Wilde’s voice catches. He clears his throat and tries again. “That won’t be necessary, I just need a few moments to gather my things.” 

Every muscle in his body is screaming at him to _go back to bed_ but he can’t. He’s already wasted enough time, a whole day if the innkeeper is to be believed. He needs to get to the Meritocratic offices, he needs to update his team. There isn’t time for rest. 

There should be a market or two on the way. If he's lucky he’ll be able to find something to ease the symptoms on his way. He'll schedule a visit with a proper healer after.

 _Zolf trudges through the city, paying no mind to the people rude enough to stare at him and his_ unconventional _legs._ You’d think a city with a whole bloody magic school hovering above it would be used to seeing things out of the ordinary. 

_You’d think._

_Maybe he’s projecting, being overly sensitive and imagining the attention. He’s been on high alert lately. Not that he’s keen to let his guard down fully but full blown paranoia isn’t going to do him any good if he's going to spot real threats._

Should probably get some kind of long tunic or a tabard or somethin’, _he sighs to himself. Decision made, Zolf wades deeper into the market to look for some new clothes._

_He’s walking back toward his boarding house when something catches his eye. He turns just in time to see a man stumble and go down at the mouth of an alley. Could be muggers, could just be a drunk, could be any number of things. He really should check it out, just in case. Zolf is moving before he registers making the decision, hand reaching for a familiar weapon and finding the hilt of a rapier instead._

_Another passerby has stopped to help by the time Zolf reaches him. “I’m a healer,” he says by way of awkward introduction._

_They step back and give Zolf room to have a look. “Don’t look so good.”_

_“I’ll be the judge of that.” Zolf gives him a quick once over for any obvious wounds before gently turning over what turns out to be Oscar godsdamn Wilde. “What in the-?”_

_“You know him?”_

_“Unfortunately,” Zolf scratches his beard wearily. “Don’t worry, I’ll get him sorted out.”_

_Wilde’s eyes flutter for a moment at Zolf's voice then slip closed. He’s warm under Zolf’s hands, too warm. No obvious bleeding, at least there’s that, could be internal though. It’s barely been a week and this is the second time Wilde has been unconscious at his feet in a gutter._

_“Didya see anyone with him that mighta done this?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, scanning the area and hoping he isn’t going to be in for a fight by himself._

_“No, he just kind of wobbled and fell over.”_

_Zolf sighs and goes back to checking over Wilde. Could be poison again maybe. He_ is _warm though, but Zolf is pretty sure humans run hotter than dwarves. Might be a fever?_

_Wilde groans and presses his face into Zolf’s hand, curling his body towards him._

_That’s it, clearly the man is dying if he’s seeking_ Zolf _for comfort. He calls on the healing energy of Poseidon (hoping it doesn't backfire what with their recent disagreements and all) and directs it at Oscar Wilde._

_“Oscar?”_

_Zolf is rewarded with a mumbled response and a flutter of eyelashes revealing bleary eyes._

_“_ _Comeon you bloody git, let’s get you up.” He hooks an arm around Wilde and hauls him more or less to his feet. Magic works well enough for wounds but an illness that’s progressed this far is better tended to through medicine and bedrest. “Need to take better care of yourself.”_

Oscar’s fevered mind plays all kinds of tricks on him. He’s carried away from the sound of screaming that isn’t his. Riots, zombies, dragon fire, and Zolf? What on earth? Flashes of dreams, of reality, they blur together, the only thread Oscar can follow is the low rumble of Zolf’s voice and the press of a cool cloth on his forehead. 

But that’s absurd, even if he managed to meet up with him Zolf wouldn’t…

A calm healing energy soothes away the worst of it and then Oscar fades into blessed darkness.

* * *

Oscar wakes in an unfamiliar room (not for the first time) when his fever finally breaks. Even with the nightmares he’s feeling better than he has in days. It's going to take some time to parse through what was real and what he'd hallucinated. 

Gathering his belongings (nothing stolen, thank the gods) and venturing downstairs he finds the world’s gone to hell (more to hell). The undead ravaging the city wasn’t something his mind baked up in the midst of a fever dream. Pockets of them emerged across the city to wreak havoc and he’d been less than useless. (In the way, taking up much needed resources on people who likely needed them more) 

(Was it _all_ real? Did- no, that's absurd)

There’s no sign of (Zolf) the person that nursed him back to health. Wilde honestly can’t decide if that’s a good or bad thing. 

It would seem Kafka’s grand ritual at the opera house had been stopped but from the tales in the common room there had been a price. 

Wilde takes a moment to steady himself. He needs to get to the university. There is still so much work to do. 


End file.
